


find the future that redeems

by hipsterchrist



Category: Jurassic Park Original Trilogy (Movies), Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, California, Childhood Trauma, During Canon, Flashbacks, Gen, Los Angeles, Minor Original Character(s), Movie: Jurassic World (2015), One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, Protective Siblings, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterchrist/pseuds/hipsterchrist
Summary: The timing is perhaps the cruelest thing about it. It's Timmy's birthday.Or, Lex and Tim are celebrating his birthday when news breaks about Jurassic World, and they see something unfortunate of themselves in Zach and Gray.
Relationships: Lex Murphy & Tim Murphy
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	find the future that redeems

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea back in 2015 when Jurassic World first came out. Only got around to starting it a month ago. Just a self-indulgent slice of PTSD-ridden life and horrible timing.
> 
> Title from Dar Williams' "Teenagers, Kick Our Butts."

The timing is perhaps the cruelest thing about it. It's Timmy's birthday.

Lex is walking out of LAX, rolling her suitcase behind her and trying to avoid tripping over the chronically untied laces of her kicks, her phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder. This would be easier with an enabled bluetooth function and some tiny device wrapped around her ear, undoubtedly, but there's not much she hates more than appearing to be talking to herself in public. It doesn't matter anyway, if Timmy isn't even picking up.

"Will you seriously not answer your phone for your own sister?" she complains at his voicemail inbox. "This is call number six, for those counting at home." She stops at the curb, pulling her luggage to stand upright beside her, tightening her grip on the handle. "You really leave me no choice but to call your work phone, you know!" she yells before hanging up. It's as severe as a threat she can give over digital sound waves. She'll do him the courtesy of giving him a few minutes before making good on it.

Lex shoves her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and waves her hand out to hail a cab. The sidewalk is lined lousy with Ubers and Lyfts waiting for their fares, but a single yellow cab pulls gratefully up in the miraculously empty space a few yards from her. The driver jumps out to help put her luggage in the trunk, but she declines, and he hops right back in, unbothered.

"Don't see a lot of people your age hailing taxis these days," he says as she slides into the backseat, her hand still tight around the handle of her suitcase next to her. She smiles and shrugs.

"I'm a computer programmer," she says with a slight wince. _Computer nerd_ , Timmy's prepubescent voice rings in her ears. "I unfortunately know a lot about privacy. You couldn't pay me to trust those people with my data." The driver laughs like he shares her knowledge - and honestly? There's a good chance he does; Lex has met dozens of cab drivers with skills and experience that match her own, and she's grown accustomed to the understanding of the privilege her skin and accent and citizenship afford her. 

"I just have to call my brother," she says after a few minutes of pleasant conversation, already scrolling through her contacts to find Timmy's work number. "I'm supposed to be meeting him." The driver - Mohammed, his license says, but she's learned that he goes by Adel - nods and reaches back to slide the partition closed. It's considerate but unnecessary, although it's nice to meet a man who listens to her. Clearly he recognizes that she takes her privacy seriously. 

"Tim Murphy's desk," a distinctly un-Timmy voice announces in her ear. "Emily Martin speaking. What can I do for you?" Lex scans quickly through the files in her brain, tracking down _Emily Martin_ to a few mediocre articles published with Slate, and two particularly great ones on Buzzfeed News. An exposé on a decades-long cover up of a series of sexual abuse allegations at a summer camp in Maine. Coverage of the Republican primary race, with a focus on the more progressive candidates who stand no chance in the political climate of 2015. The history of women hackers, which was clearly a passion project and little else.

Lex herself was a source for that last one. Unnamed, of course, and through emails from one of her seventeen burner addresses and encrypted texts only. Timmy had slipped Emily a fake name, shrugged and said that Sarah Grant was an old classmate of his, and never even gave Lex a heads up. It's lucky the two of them are so often on the same wavelength. 

"Can I talk to Timmy?" she says. There's a long pause. 

"Uh, Tim's busy at the moment," Emily says. Lex rolls her eyes.

"I'm his sister."

"Oh!" says Emily cheerfully. "That explains the 'Timmy,' I guess. One sec."

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me _Tim_ when you call my job?" Timmy hisses, almost immediately. He must have been standing right next to Emily. Lex rolls her eyes again.

"You should've thought about that before not answering all my calls, _Timmy_ ," she says seriously. He huffs.

"Shit, you landed already? Sorry, Lex. I'm working on a story and I completely lost track of time."

"Well, find it," Lex says. "It's your birthday, dude! You didn't forget our plans, right?"

"Our totally lame adult birthday celebration plans because we're in our thirties and can't drink anymore without ruining our bodies for like, four days?" Timmy asks. Lex can hear him grinning. "How could I possibly forget? Two tickets to _San Andreas_ are sitting in my inbox as we speak. Hope you don't mind the drive to Chino."

"Why would I mind? You're the one driving."

It's tradition now, just the two of them and a mindless summer blockbuster in any small theater in any random nowhere on each of their actual birthdays. Friends can celebrate the weekend after or the Friday before, but today is Timmy's birthday, so today is: Timmy, Lex, a sad Cinemark in Chino, and a disaster movie so ridiculous that neither of them have flashbacks. 

There's a bit of shaking this time, though, as the earthquake on the big screen tears through the setting, and for just a blink of her eyes, Lex could swear she hears ominous footsteps, smells blood and wet earth, feels mud under her palms.

But she simply grips her soda tight enough to crush the cup and moves on, trashing it as they walk out of the theater.

"I wasn't expecting so many people to be here," she says as they navigate slowly through the exiting audience, pretending she didn't see Timmy tossing a crushed box of Whoppers into the trash can.

"You'd think, as Californians at risk of experiencing a devastating earthquake happening at any given moment, they'd be more wary of seeing a movie about it," Timmy says in agreement. "We're overdue for a Big One, you know."

"Yeah, I have a friend researching to do a whole podcast about it," Lex says with a roll of her eyes. "It's literally all he talks about. Come on, dude; it's _cake time_!"

It actually takes another hour to reach Cake Time, because Chino really is a long damn drive from Koreatown, but there’s an ice cream cake in the freezer of Timmy’s shitty studio, and a terrace with a decent view. Tim and Lex help themselves to huge slices of Fudgie the Whale and sit cross-legged on the concrete overlooking the courtyard where there seems to be an informal cook-out competition taking place between several Hispanic families and their Korean neighbors in the dying daylight. Some of them catch sight of Timmy and yell up to him - “ _Timoteo_ ,” they call him, as they chastise him about his lack of outdoor furniture - and Timmy exchanges friendly words in Spanish with them, and then a stilted conversation with a boy who can’t be older than six in what Lex recognizes as Korean.

“He’s been trying to teach me,” Timmy says by way of explanation, after the little boy has run off to find his cousins. “It’s hard when I’m barely ever home so he doesn’t see me around much. Also, you know, it’s just hard.” Lex shrugs and scoops up a bite of chocolate ice cream on her fork.

“It’s actually not that difficult once you start thinking of it mathematically,” she says. “The alphabet is really easy, and the way that the grammar is organized--” Timmy laughs and shakes his head.

“I knew you were gonna say that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Nerd.”

“ _You’re_ the one that’s out of the zeitgeist,” Lex says, her mouth full of frosting and chocolate crumbs. Timmy makes a disgusted face but rolls his eyes again before they fall back into comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Lex drags the prongs of her fork through the melted remains of a whale’s tale and asks, “Why _don’t_ you have any outdoor furniture?”

“You’re lucky I even have a futon,” Timmy says. It's a dodge, and not even a good one, but it's his birthday, so Lex doesn't push it. She knows by now that it's more about his reputation as a journalist than anything else, his image among his peers that he's a broke-ish millennial just like them. Most of them probably don't even question it, but surely, if they thought twice about it, they'd realize: Timmy's just like _Lex_ , cushioned by a quiet bank account full of one half of an inheritance that got him a bachelor's degree and no student loan debt and, truthfully, no need for a job at all.

He can afford outdoor furniture and real beds and a Los Angeles apartment ten times the size of this one. He _chooses_ to live like he can't. He _chooses_ to pretend that he struggles. He works long hours, he turns in reports for employee reimbursements, and when he goes out to eat with his colleagues and friends, he splits the bill.

But his fridge is stocked with fresh, organic produce bought at farmer's markets and he parks his used car in a paid garage blocks away with a security guard and a gate. He pays for an annual subscription for tickets at a theatre in Beverly Hills. He makes large monthly donations to Hillary's primary campaign. He never misses his weekly appointments with either of his out-of-network therapists.

Some things, Lex has learned, they just can't shake.

A harsh buzzing sound vibrates suddenly against her knee. She jumps and shakes her head at Timmy's small huff of laughter before she picks up her phone.

 _Dr. Ian Malcolm_ , says the screen. She stares at it for a moment, then puts it back down, out of Timmy's line of sight, without sliding to reject the call. Timmy hums.

"Ex-girlfriend?" he asks. "Is the militant vegan still in the picture?" Lex rolls her eyes.

"I haven't spoken to Tara since I left Seattle," she says.

"Well, it can't be work-related or you'd answer. So who was it?"

"Nosy," Lex says.

"Journalist," Timmy points out. Lex sighs.

"It was Ian," she says. "Um, Dr. Malcolm." Timmy's jaw tightens. Lex wishes she'd lied.

"He's still calling you then?" Timmy asks.

"Every few years," she says flatly, going back to her plate as if there's anything left on it that's not melted. "I thought it'd be more frequent, with--you know. The park. But I guess he's mostly gotten the hint."

"About time," Timmy says, violently spearing his fork into the last remaining remotely solid bite of cake on his plate. His own phone buzzes just then, and they both look down to see _Ian Malcolm_ flash across the screen.

"Maybe he wants to wish you a happy birthday," Lex says brightly. Timmy snorts.

"Call me a skeptic," he says, and lets it ring itself to a stop. Seconds later, Lex gets another call. _Dr. Ian Malcolm_ again. She frowns and picks up the phone, still not answering, but places it next to Timmy's this time. They stare at it until it stills, and then--

Timmy's again, buzzing with _Ian Malcolm_. 

"You don't think something happened, do you?" Lex says, finally setting aside her plate. "Like, to Dr. Grant?" Timmy shakes his head resolutely. 

"Ellie would be calling, if that was the case," he says, and Lex knows better than to ask the obvious yet unthinkable follow up question: What if something's happened to Ellie, too?

Of the three living adults who survived the island - the original one, the _first_ worst idea - Ellie is the only one who remains, to this day, in consistent contact with the two nerdy kids who spent hours screaming and whimpering their trauma to the trees and dinosaurs. She's never missed a birthday - Timmy has a card from her on his kitchen counter right now, Lex noticed earlier - and always calls to congratulate them on their various accomplishments. She knows more about Lex's romantic life than anybody besides Timmy and the therapist she sees specifically for her interpersonal relations issues. No graduation, publication, or promotion has gone unacknowledged by Dr. Ellie Sattler, and for that, Lex and Timmy are eternally, deeply grateful for reasons they've never quite been able to articulate. The thought of something happening to her is unspeakable.

Still, Lex's phone rings again, after Timmy's. Then Timmy's once more, after hers. And so on, so forth, for three more rounds. 

"What if--" Timmy starts, then stops, blinks, shakes his head. But Lex knows what he's thinking, like she always does, ever since their prolonged _very fucking near_ death experience as stupid, overenthusiastic children.

_What if something's happening at the park?_

Her hands begin to tremble. Timmy rubs hard at the scar on his knee. When his phone goes quiet this time, he snatches it up, and Lex watches in silent dread as he opens Twitter. It takes under five seconds for his face to go white.

" _Shit_ ," he whispers. Lex inhales. Her phone begins to buzz again. Timmy holds his up for her to read a single tweet.

**The Associated Press @AP**  
_BREAKING: Jurassic World in chaos as dinosaurs escape, attack park visitors and employees. Multiple casualties. Authorities still assessing._

Lex exhales. It comes out as a shaky, unintelligible sound. She picks up her phone and struggles to slide her thumb across the screen.

“How bad is it?” she answers. A breath on the other end. 

“It’s, uh. It’s pretty bad, Lex,” says Dr. Malcolm. He sounds shaken. 

Lex has watched every televised interview Dr. Ian Malcolm has ever done on the subject of what happened at Jurassic Park. She’s listened to every podcast episode and NPR audio clip of Dr. Ian Malcolm on the subject of the terrible idea that is Jurassic World. Even in the first ones, the ones that got him buried in litigation for violating the NDA they all signed before they nearly died, he’s always sounded steady as he can. A solid force. He stammers, yeah, but his voice has never wavered.

The fact that it does, now, is not lost on Lex.

 _It’s pretty bad, Lex_ , he said, and she knows it’s an understatement.

“How many?” she asks, and hopes she doesn’t have to clarify that she’s asking for a body count.

“Well, it’s, ah. It’s looking like about, uh, at least twelve.” Lex hisses on an inhale. Beside her, Timmy is scrolling through Twitter, pausing at some news clips before continuing, never letting them finish. He seems to be looking for something specific.

“But that’s--I should clarify, uh--” Dr. Malcolm says, “they’re still counting, assessing, you know, damage, and that count is coming from two surviving park employees and, uh, two kids.”

Lex’s eyes begin to sting.

“Kids?” she says weakly. Timmy’s head snaps up as he gives her a sudden, sharp look. She looks back at him with wide eyes, unable to convey--god, she doesn’t even know what she should be conveying.

“Two boys,” Dr. Malcolm says. “Uh, age twelve and sixteen, I think. They were really in the, uh, the thick of it.” Lex swallows. She’s vaguely aware that her teeth are chattering, that her jaw is trembling.

“Twelve?” she repeats. Timmy looks down again, his hand coming to rest on her knee. She wishes it was a steady presence, a comfort. Timmy wishes that, too, she knows. But it can’t be what it isn’t. It can’t be steady when Timmy’s hands are shaking now, too. 

Lex glances down at the phone in his other hand, sees eyewitness videos autoplaying as he mindlessly continues to scroll. She wonders if he’s even really seeing any of it, of what’s actually on his screen, or if all he’s seeing is a flashing light in the rain, a Jeep on top of him, a T-rex’s teeth, a pair of raptors reflected in a clean kitchen surface. She reaches over and digs her fingernails into his arm, waits for him to jump, for proof that he’s grounded in some sort of reality, proof that he’s not lost.

“They’re still there, in Costa Rica,” says Dr. Malcolm in Lex’s ear, “uh, to my knowledge. They’re boarding a plane moment--er, momentarily.” There’s a pause of heavy silence. It takes Lex a few seconds to realize what, exactly, is being asked.

Dr. Malcolm has spoken publicly about the Park since it happened. Dr. Grant wrote a book two years later. Ellie stayed blessedly silent until news broke a decade ago about a new park, a new company, a recaptured apex predator and the best security measures money could buy. _Spared no expense_ , Ellie said wryly as she sat on a panel beside Alan and Ian on CNN. _That’s what John Hammond said, too._

Lex and Timmy have been accosted by journalists and academics and weirdos for years. They've learned not to answer their phones around certain dates - every anniversary of "the incident" when all outlets are chomping at the bit for a new perspective, every anniversary of their grandfather's death when the discussion turns to his legacy - and to never Google themselves. Lex knows exactly who to email and what to threaten to get their names scrubbed from listicles about defining moments in the twentieth century because she's had to do it dozens of times. Timmy left his first job in journalism because he assaulted a colleague from the culture corner of the newsroom who made an "only 90s kids remember" joke and he refused to write his feelings into a 3,000-word piece to be edited and headlined and published and read by people who knew nothing.

They’ve never talked about it - ever - with anyone except each other.

There were NDAs. There were denials and categorical shut downs by their parents. There were well-meaning but out-of-their-depths child and adolescent psychiatrists. There were guidance counselors suggesting they don't mention it in their college application essays. There were girlfriends who wanted to hear about it until it was too much. There were professors and bosses telling them to chill out.

There’s half a lifetime of _Don’t Talk About It, Just Bury It_ butting up against half a lifetime of _Don’t Just Talk About It, Monetize It_.

Lex can feel a panic attack coming on. This one will start in her knees. She can see the same impending in Timmy, in his restless thumbs.

God. It's Timmy’s _birthday_.

But in Costa Rica, there are two kids about to board a plane back to a life that everyone around them will try to make normal, and Lex and Tim Murphy are the only people in the world who can understand them, who - if they get there in time, if they get there before assholes with mics and therapists with dollar signs in their eyes and attorneys with incomprehensible paperwork - can really, truly help them.

Today, Lex’s brother is thirty-four years old, but as he looks up at her, she can only see him at twelve, dirt on his face, hand bandaged, terrified, the bravest person she’s ever known. Now, just like then, there's a steely resolution in his eyes. He holds up his phone so she can clearly see the screen, where a video is playing: jostled footage from a crowded shuttle bus of two boys trying to make themselves small, clutching one another's arms, the older attempting to subtly wipe tears from his face while the younger violently shakes.

Lex looks back at Timmy, meets his determined gaze with her own. They both nod.

“What airport?”

**Author's Note:**

> The sad Cinemark in Chino is real. _I_ saw _San Andreas_ there. It was crowded.
> 
> The podcast about the impending big earthquake in Southern California is real, too. I highly recommend it even if you don't live in the area. It's called "The Big One: Your Survival Guide."


End file.
